Sillitoe said, 'I have put him in another room. I think it might be wise to see him.'
She said, 'I shall wait on the terrace, Richard.'
But Sillitoe interjected, This is my house and you are my guests. I see no reason to separate you.' He touched her hand lightly. To divide the legend?'
His small secretary was hovering close by, and Sillitoe said, 'I shall come and disturb you shortly.'
One of Sillitoe's men led the way to the library, and then into a smaller ante-room adjoining it. There was a chair by the fireplace. Catherine recognised it. As if it had never been moved since she had sat there that day, when she had come for Sillitoe's help. When he had brushed past her, and she had felt him fighting the desire to touch her, to lay his hand on her shoulder. But he had not.
Admiral Lord James Rhodes was a tall, solidly built man who had once been handsome. His face was dominated by a strong, beaked nose, while his eyes were surprisingly small, almost incidental by comparison. He glanced quickly at Catherine, but was careful to reveal nothing. A man used to hiding his feelings, if he had any, she thought.
Bolitho said, 'May I present the Viscountess Somervell, my lord?' He felt her look at him, sensed the anxiety, in case there would be some lurking insult or rebuff. But Rhodes gave a stiff bow and said, 'I've not had the honour before, my lady.' He did not take her hand and she did not offer it.
Catherine walked to a window to watch as yet another carriage clattered across the stones. She could feel the admiral staring at her, but found no pleasure in his uncertainty.
She thought suddenly and with longing of Falmouth. To be parted again was too brutal to consider.
She leaned closer to the window and observed the new arrivals. No admiral or politician this time, only a tall lieutenant, removing his hat as he gave his hand to the woman who stepped down beside him. Even in the fading light, she could see the grey in his dark hair, saw him laugh, and the way the fair woman looked at him. So this was George Avery's lover, to whom he seemed to have lost his heart.
And yet, when he had brought Sillitoe's invitation and had warned her of the prospect of Malta, he had said nothing about staying behind when Richard was ordered to sail.
She heard Rhodes say, 'I'm giving you Frobisher, d'you know her?'
And Richard's reply, his mind already grappling with his new task.
'Yes, my lord. Seventy-four Captain Jefferson, as I recall.'
Rhodes sounded relieved, she thought. 'No more, I fear. Slipped his cable two years back. Buried at sea, poor fellow.'
Bolitho said quietly, 'A French prize. She was named Glorieux.'
'Does that trouble you, Sir Richard? If so……'
'A ship is as good as you use her.'
Rhodes grunted. 'New, too, compared with some of your recent vessels. Eight years old.'
She heard him pick up a goblet and drink noisily. Yes, he was relieved. She turned from the window and said, 'And when will this be required, my lord?'
He regarded her warily. 'Weeks rather than months, my lady. But you need not concern yourself with such matters. I have always found…'
'Have you, my lord? I am glad to know it. Out there, people are celebrating a victory, the cost of which is still to be calculated, and I am concerned for this man and for myself. Is that so strange?'
Bolitho said, 'I have not yet decided.'
Rhodes looked around as though trapped. 'You were chosen because of your reputation, because of the honour you have won for your country.' He regarded Catherine grimly. 'It should be plain to see why this is of paramount importance.'
The door opened softly, and Sillitoe entered without speaking.
She said quietly, 'All I see is two islands and two men. A tyrant who has fought and murdered his way through Europe on one, and an admiral of England, a true hero, on the other. That is no comfort at all!' She touched her eyes with her glove, and when she looked again, Rhodes had departed.
Sillitoe said, 'I do regret this. Rhodes is a good controller, but he has no tact. If you decide against hoisting your flag in the Mediterranean, Richard, it will be his head on the block, not yours. And he knows it.' He glared at his secretary again, and then said, 'Join me presently. There are some people you should meet.' He gave a wry smile. 'Including my nephew's guest.'
The door closed and they were alone; only the strains of music and the muffled murmur of voices reminded them where they were.
She lowered her face. 'I am so sorry, Richard. I spoke like an angry, embittered wife. I had no right.'
He raised her chin and studied her. 'If you were my wife in the eyes of the church, I could not love you more. You had every right. You are my life.'
Then let them see it.' She tossed the shawl from her shoulders and touched the pendant, and looked at him again.
'And tomorrow we shall leave London.'
Lieutenant George Avery stared around at the crowd and began to doubt the wisdom of having accepted his uncle's invitation. Important people all, well known to those who shared this unfamiliar world, politicians, senior officers of both army and navy, and a few diplomats adorned with honours he did not recognise. It was the utter transformation of his uncle's house which was the most astonishing thing. The silent austerity had been replaced by music, noise and laughter, and liveried servants pushing through the throng this way and that to satisfy the guests and refill the goblets.
He glanced down at his companion. 'Perhaps we should have made our excuses, Susanna.'
She smiled, observing him thoughtfully, like one discovering or seeking some new and unknown quality in him.
'I recognise some of the faces here. I have seen them on other occasions. I suspect that this is where all the real decisions are made, like the turn of a card.'
Avery felt vaguely jealous, without understanding why. She was used to such affairs, like the one at her own London house, where she had invited him to stay. To be her lover.
He had seen heads turn to look and compare. The beauty and the lowly lieutenant. The most junior sea officer Avery had seen so far had been a post- captain. They walked through the throng, and he saw her acknowledge one or two people. Most of the women she ignored.
When he mentioned them, she replied softly, 'Like the extra footmen, they are paid for their services!' She had gripped his arm and almost laughed at his embarrassment. 'Lord, Mister Avery, you still have much to learn!'
She released his arm now, and said, That is Lady Somervell, is it not? It must be.'
Avery saw Catherine and Bolitho by a low balustrade, and said, 'Would you care to meet them?'
But Sillitoe stepped between them, and held out his hand. 'Lady Mildmay, what a pleasure. I had been so looking forward to making your acquaintance. I hope everything is to your satisfaction? A great pity you are to be separated from my nephew so soon, but then, I shall never attempt to understand the navy!'
She looked at Avery. 'Separated? I thought… I understood that you would be remaining in England until some suitable appointment could be found.'
Avery said, 'I am Sir Richard's flag lieutenant, Susanna. It is more than a duty, or an excuse. It is what I must do.'
Sillitoe shrugged. 'Believe me, I offered him an alternative, Lady Mildmay. I do, of course, admire loyalty but……' He broke off as one of his footmen signalled to him. 'We will speak later.'
Avery said, 'I was going to tell you. I have been happier with you than I could have believed possible. I love you, I always have.'
'But you'd leave me, because of duty?'
She turned, startled, as Catherine said, 'I think we should meet.'
She offered her hand.
'I do know what you are thinking. I try to accept it, but I shall never do so without pain.' She glanced around the room, seeing the quick glances, the knowing smiles, recognising them. Sir Wilfred Lafargue, one of London 's leading lawyers and a friend of Sillitoe's, who had helped with her unexpected inheritance from her dead husband. And a red-faced city merchant to whom she had been introduced, probably at some similar reception. Men of influence, and authority. Not the kind who fought and died in battle, at sea with Richard's ships, or those who stood
